ion of satiety, the gay revelries of
Naples, when he fell in love with the face and voice of Viola Pisani.
But his love, like his ambition, was vague and desultory. It did not
satisfy his whole heart and fill up his whole nature; not from want of
strong and noble passions, but because his mind was not yet matured and
settled enough for their development. As there is one season for the
blossom, another for the fruit; so it is not till the bloom of fancy
begins to fade, that the heart ripens to the passions that the bloom
precedes and foretells. Joyous alike at his lonely easel or amidst his
boon companions, he had not yet known enough of sorrow to love deeply.
For man must be disappointed with the lesser things of life before
he can comprehend the full value of the greatest. It is the shallow
sensualists of France, who, in their salon-language, call love "a
folly,"--love, better understood, is wisdom. Besides, the world was too
much with Clarence Glyndon. His ambition of art was associated with the
applause and estimation of that miserable minority of the surface that
we call the Public.

Like those who deceive, he was ever fearful of being himself the dupe.
He distrusted the sweet innocence of Viola. He could not venture the
hazard of seriously proposing marriage to an Italian actress; but the
modest dignity of the girl, and something good and generous in his own
nature, had hitherto made him shrink from any more worldly but less
honourable designs. Thus the familiarity between them seemed rather that
of kindness and regard than passion. He attended the theatre; he stole
behind the scenes to converse with her; he filled his portfolio with
countless sketches of a beauty that charmed him as an artist as well as
lover; and day after day he floated on through a changing sea of
doubt and irresolution, of affection and distrust. The last, indeed,
constantly sustained against his better reason by the sober admonitions
of Mervale, a matter-of-fact man!

The day following that eve on which this section of my story opens,
Glyndon was riding alone by the shores of the Neapolitan sea, on the
other side of the Cavern of Posilipo. It was past noon; the sun had lost
its early fervour, and a cool breeze sprung up voluptuously from the
sparkling sea. Bending over a fragment of stone near the roadside,
he perceived the form of a man; and when he approached, he recognised
Zanoni.

The Englishman saluted him courteously. "Have you disco